Every wrinkle,
marking her skin, burnt parchment,
every ache in her body,
every Great Depresssion,
every dustbowl,
all the backbreaking
work of men and women
who draw sustenance from the earth,
every graying lock
of her once-silky hair,
all the tears she’s shed,
all the tables she’s set
all the meals she’s cooked
when the crops failed
and winter loomed;
the tender glance
she gives her husband
when he’s broken
by cares:
All is written
in the holy book
of her eyes.

Sonny Rainshine

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/migrant-mother/